


The Lucky Ones

by ManyHappyWidows



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beetlejuice (1988) Fusion, Beetlejuice Cartoon/Musical Crossover, Beetlejuice Has Mood Ring Hair (Beetlejuice), Beetlejuice is a hot mess, Canon Backstory, F/M, I Mean It When I Say Slowwwwwwwwww Burn, Medieval France, Multi, Neitherworld (Beetlejuice), Pervert Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Present Day Beetlejuice, Revenge, Slow Burn, Witch Trials, historical fiction - Freeform, past and future, religious trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManyHappyWidows/pseuds/ManyHappyWidows
Summary: This story takes place simultaneously during 14th century France before the death of Beetlejuice, and in the present(ish) day, approximately 50 years after his last meeting with former best friend, Lydia Deetz, where the Ghost with the most is finally seen by someone new.My interpretation of the character is equally spread between movie canon, the animated series, and the musical version.
Relationships: Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	1. One is the Loneliest Number

Paris, 1389

He awoke to the sound of church bells. Sunlight was streaming through the cracks in the loft, playing across his eyelids. It was Prime—approximately six o’clock in the morning—and a new day stretched out before him. He could already hear the narrow streets beginning to bustle in the distance as farmers drove their animals to market with little dogs nipping at their heels, and merchants with their bells and carts that echoed their morning song through the cottage walls. 

The water basin was still partly full from the night before. He doused his hands, shoving them briskly through his shaggy mop of dirty blonde. As he shook free the resident lice from his hair and beard, he gently closed his hazel eyes and recited the morning prayer.

_“Grant, most gracious God, that we may love and seek Thee always and everywhere, above all things and for Thy sake, in the life present, and may at length find Thee and for ever hold Thee fast in the life to come. Grant this for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord.”_

He paused, opening his eyes skyward. “And please, my lord…send me a bride,” he whispered, “so that I may fulfil the holy requirement.” His cheeks flushed at the request, imagining himself a husband, a father, and all of the steps in between. He managed to stutter an “Amen,” before the rush of desire spread below his face. 

Most men were married off significantly younger than he, but then, most men had families who knew other families. His parents and siblings had been unceremoniously stolen from him by a wave of pox when he was barely six years old. With no one left to care for him, the kindly nuns of the nearby parish stepped in. 

Maladies paid no mind to whether they made widows or orphans, or whether or not those orphans would grow to be 30 years of age and remain unattached, untethered, with no progeny to show for the labor of living. Still, 30 was a milestone. He himself had looked death in the eyes, but in the end, death blinked first. 

Life in the parish wasn’t so bad. They never taught him to read or write, as they deemed his peasant blood to be an unworthy investment of their time, but he recalled and repeated bible verses with ease and was taught how to put his muscles to good use doing whatever tasks needed doing. God had provided; he was fed and warm at night. 

The nuns insisted he was a foundling, but he knew better. Under cover of the darkness in the straw pile he shared with the farmhands, he remembered his mother’s hands in the bread dough, his father’s gruff laughter, and his baby brother’s late night cries. He remembered his sister’s lilting voice, singing lullabies to ease the baby back to sleep, and the way she ruffled his curls every morning. For whatever reason, the nuns disapproved of his memories. Any hint of argument was met with the end of a switch or worse, extra labor—hauling casks and produce in the hot sun to the carriage carts bound for market. Alone. He decided to keep his memories safely confined to midnight whispers.

At thirteen, he sneaked a sip of wine from a cask in the cellar destined for the nobles. The cask had arrived after a long journey from a notable vineyard run by the Jews of Burgundy, and the parish ministry had paid top dollar. He had only wanted one fleeting taste of royalty, but Sister Agnesot had caught him in the act and punished him harshly. He had been denied food for two long days as a consequence for stealing, as well as being forced to wear the white sheet of repentance, shouting his remorse at the Sunday morning worshipers. He had much preferred being flogged for the infraction of staring too long at a dairy maid. 

He learned quickly to compartmentalize any suffering, and focused instead on honing his useful attributes. He soon discovered that he had a knack for delivering hoglings, shearing the sheep, compromising with the chickens, and growing enormous cabbages. He excelled at woodcarving and was extremely efficient at digging holes. As usual, God provided: He was unanimously selected to dig and redistribute the cesspit multiple times—a great honor, according to Sister Agnesot. The sisters often complimented his work on the cesspits, insisting that he was positively born for the job. 

In the summer of 1374, a newcomer freshly into her thirteenth year joined the nunnery. When the two would pass in the courtyard Sister Symonne would make doe eyes, stirring fledgling desire in the young man. He had once happened upon her bathing in a stream alone at dusk, something the other sisters would never dream of, and a potentially punishable offense for the young woman. Admiring her rebelliousness, he quickly realized that to leave now would cause her undue alarm. He crouched In silent awe, low in the brush, until she dressed and departed, certain that the beating of his heart had given him away. For the first time in his young life, he had awoken to spilled seed the next morning and had forced himself to skip breakfast and lunch as penance. God would soon deliver him from temptation though, as a month later a resurgence of plague tore through Paris, claiming both Sister Agnesot and Sister Symonne. He himself had developed mild symptoms, but the grace of God, along with a warm and dry diet, had spared him yet again, earning him the surname of _de Bonheur_ : Lucky one. 

As an adult, the skills he learned at the parish were all that stood between him and a life as a mendicant, and he remembered the nuns and priests, long since shuffled off this mortal coil, in his nightly prayers. Using what he learned, by the age of sixteen he had managed to squirrel away 60 deniers to move to a small cottage only a short distance from the market square with enough of a yard for a few chickens and a single-serve garden, in which he had recently decided to try his hand at leeks. He had a decent pair of leather shoes for messy jobs, but remained mostly barefoot for his own comfort. He owned two sets of clothing rather than only one, in contrast to most other peasants, and this made him feel very well-off indeed. As always, God had provided. 

Yes, he was content with his simple life at the cottage, except for the unquenchable longing. He dared not speak it aloud for fear that God would hear him, but he had never known a woman in the way man was meant to. He had never felt soft, warm flesh curled against his, nor wild curls tickling his sleeping face. He had never had lips to kiss, or someone who wished to share his breath at night. His imagination ran wild with fantasies of companionship, love, and other, more matrimonial acts. Desperation washed over his body, leaving it stiff and rigid and out of breath.

He dunked his face into the basin, for good measure.

Satisfied now with both physical and spiritual cleanliness, he pulled on his chemise and sun-colored tunic and descended the loft to the kitchen. Last night’s porridge was still on the warm side, and a good, crusty bread was an acceptable companion, but the chickens came first. Not only did he believe in feeding those without hands before himself, but the chickens would be pecking insistently at the door any moment once they heard signs of life in the cottage. He opened the door and, sure enough was greeted by the two aging hens, Cunégonde and Gukguk, poised and ready for breakfast. The old gals didn’t give him much in return aside from the occasional eggs, but then, he had no rooster. He didn’t mind, though. The hens were good listeners, while also enjoying a lively debate on Tuesday afternoons. 

“Bonjour, mademoiselles!” He greeted the hens warmly yet formally, the way a gentleman should. “I must commend you for your punctuality. Gukguk, you are looking marvelous this fine morning!” He patted the more sturdy hen on the head. She ruffled her feathers, impatient. 

“And Cunégonde,” he went on. “You don’t look a day over two years old.” The meeker of the two hens bowed her head bashfully. He shook the feed bag gently. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some of this,” he said, tossing their daily rations on the dirt. The hens clucked their gratitude. To them, he was the biggest thing in the universe. The hands that provided. He liked that. 

With the chickens fed, he briefly checked the coop for eggs and, finding none, returned to his porridge. He hastily wolfed down the remnants and bread. He would be off to town today, like everyday before. Off to the market, a man and his rucksack, to buy, sell, and trade whatever he could, so that he might live to repeat the process another day. The endless cycle of survival, doubling as an endless cycle of hope: That among the cabbages and cloth would be the bride that God intended.

“God will provide,” he said softly to the hens, as he crossed the threshold into the morning sun. They, naturally, clucked their agreement.


	2. Just the Two of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an average day at a boring Midwestern funeral home.

Knoll Funeral Home

Decatur, Michigan, present day

_CRASH! BANG!_

The song of catastrophe broke Miri’s focus, and Mrs. McClain’s lipstick smeared. Something large had clattered to the floor in the cold storage room. 

“Shit,” she whispered, throwing her gloves down on the table. “Don’t go anywhere, Sharon.” 

Miri shoved her plastic sleeves past her elbows and took a deep breath. She only hoped the busted storage unit hadn’t finally exploded, but she was already preparing for the worst. _Always Be Ready._ That was her father’s imparted wisdom to both of his children, a side effect of making a living off predictable unpredictability. She started down the hall to cold storage, ready for damage control. 

The stairs to the upper level, which included viewing rooms and offices with organ music softly piped in from outer space, silk lined coffins, and soft floral carpet lay at a junction between her work station and cold storage. These stairs led to her brother’s domain, where everything was wine and roses and he always knew what to say. Her home was the dungeon, crafted with surgical steel and easy-to-mop tile floors, and smelling of antiseptic. Miri’s father, in the throes of his second midlife crisis, had dumped the business on his kids and moved to Miami with a woman 20 years his junior. Miri’s older brother Barry had all the personality of a Gucci sock, but he had a gift for handling grieving families with a patience that Miri never had for the living. Thus, Miri handled the dead. She had been halfway through her degree program for art therapy, but daddy’s gracious offer to pay for her degree in mortuary science was too good to pass up. Miri had always resented needing daddy’s money, but work in the death business made that a problem of the past. Besides, dead people were quiet. Usually.

As Miri reached cold storage, she pulled up short. Two unfamiliar male voices were arguing loudly, punctuated by the sound of smashing glass jars and rolling carts and tables upended, spilling their contents across the tile. “What in God’s green fuck,” she whispered, backing against the adjacent wall and peering into the room.

“Leave me alone!” A roundish Italian man in one hell of a vintage golf getup cowered behind a row of utility carts and folding chairs. His hairline had skipped receding and gone straight to seceding from his head to pursue sovereignty under his nose, and he was trying to compensate with plaid. “I don’t need your help!” 

“Yeah well, tough cookies, Rotundo,” came a growl from an even more startling fellow. Miri recoiled deeper into the shadow of the door frame at the sight of him. He was on the move; red-tinged blonde waves swirling his face like a swarm of angry hornets, sunken eyes glowing with predacious intensity as he faked right and left to flush his prey from its hiding spot. His classic wide brimmed hat, emblazoned with the word “GUIDE,” was an insulting contrast to his jacket, which looked like something one might wear to a referee convention on formal night, if that sort of thing existed. Who wore vertical stripes anymore, anyway? He paced, gesticulating wildly, and began muttering to no one in particular. “You try to help ‘em, you know? You put on the stupid hat, you pack up the welcome bag. You know they don’t even pay for it anymore? That comes out of MY pocket, you ungrateful—no, wait. Let’s start over.” 

Stripes gave a snort and a wretch, spitting something vile into his hand and extending it to the man in plaid. “Scout’s honor, I’m your buddy, pal, chum, amigo. I even come with a candy bar! Check this out.” He gestured to his breast pocket. Green smoke puffed out as he reached in and produced a roll of Necco wafers. “Oh, COME on!” He scowled at the ancient candy. “That’s the last time I outsource labor to my worthless roommates. Ah, well, what do you care. You’re dead! This is your official welcome to the Neitherworld, pal! FOOOOOOORE!” 

Stripes launched the Necco wafers in the direction of the quivering mess of a man, cackling. Miri was certain she saw his arm take the shape of a golf club. She pinched the bridge of her nose. She was not Always Ready for shapeshifters. The golfer ducked and covered, but the candy only rolled to the tip of his shoe, and he kicked it away like an active grenade. Miri didn’t blame him. Necco wafers were gross.

Actual steam rose from the striped man’s head. “That’s it. No more Mister Nice Ghoul. Where the fuck is your Handbook,” he demanded. This seemed to pique the interest of Mr. Plaid. He lifted his head, and his voice became small.

“That book was real? I…didn’t dream it?” 

“Hey, compadre. We don’t do dreams here, just nightmares. Where is it?”

“I tossed it in the trash. What even is that thing? It reads like…like stereo instructions!”

“I get that a lot,” Stripes replied, nearly sounding earnest. “I’ve had about 700 years practice. Reads like a nursery rhyme now. Hey, I’m gonna level with you, brother.” A bronze cornet materialized in his hand, and he blew a sour note before it went up in smoke. In the blink of an eye he assumed the appearance of a barrister, complete with spectacles and manilla folders, and declared: “You are in direct violation of Neitherworld Code F843.5: Decedent may not annoy, dwell within, habituate, haunt, hound, infest, permeate, or tarry at a corporeal form. Decedent, unless demise occurs within the home of same, must immediately report to the Neitherworld, as outlined on page 159 of the Handbook for the Recently Deceased. Failure to appear will result in collection by a Ghostly Uniformed Intermediary Dispatch Emissary.” Stripes resumed his standard form with a burst of green flame, and tipped his GUIDE hat. 

“Basically, you’re an overdue library book. You got a warrant out, and you have NO idea how much paperwork that bitch Juno’s gonna pile on my head if I don’t deliver you for processing in the next hour. And I HATE paperwork. That’s the real hell. Religion? Buncha bullshit, sorry to say. There’s no fire and brimstone, just never-ending red tape you gotta put in alphabetical order. Then there’s the stamping and the signing and the counting and—it’s enough to send a man to an early grave, know what I’m saying? But hey, I’m your new best friend and liaison, and I’m here to get you where you need to go.”

Plaid pants shook his head meekly, sinking back behind the cluster of trolleys and chairs. “N-no,” he stuttered. “I can’t. I-I can’t leave. I have to wait here for her. I have to wait for Maria. How will she know where to find me?”

Stripes dragged his hands over his face and groaned. “Oh for fuck’s sake, he’s got Corporeal Confusion Syndrome. They don’t pay me enough for this. Come to think of it…they don’t pay me at all.” He cracked his knuckles loudly, and Miri, still glued to the scene from the shadows, got the distinct impression he was done fucking around. 

“All right. We’ll do this the hard way,” his voice thundered, and the hairs on Miri’s neck rose to attention. A blaze of amber enveloped the room, glowing tendrils stretching gracefully out from his now glowing fingers. A flick of his wrists, and the barricade behind which the unfortunate golfer sat, frozen in bluish light, suddenly rejected the laws of gravity. Stripes had a clear path to his quarry now. He charged.

A chill passed through Miri, yet she couldn’t resist leaning further into the light of the doorway. Just like that, she recognized the man in plaid. She had seen him just two days ago, and had replaced his blood with formaldehyde, glued his lips into a Mona Lisa smile, and thoughtfully arranged him in classic business casual at the request of his wife, Maria. She had also reconstructed the side of his head, which had been dented by the golf ball that nailed him at 163 miles per hour and cracked his skull, causing a fatal brain bleed. His name was Frank, he was deader than a doornail, and he was currently in a headlock.

Once Frank was apprehended, gravity was restored. The crash of steel furniture and boxes of putty, pigment, and sterile equipment raining from the ceiling was truly jarring, and Miri stumbled further into the room than she intended. She ducked her head in hopes their scuffle would keep them too busy to notice her, but luck was not on her side. The hyped up referee cocked his head in her direction, ran a purplish tongue over a row of garish incisors, and winked. Her ears burned with white hot rage. She would not reward him with reaction; she set her gaze past him to the mess of embalming tools scattered on the floor. Unfortunately, Stripes wasn’t the only one who noticed her. Poor, corporeally confused Frank sank his teeth into the striped forearm around his neck. Stripes yelped and sent him flying, yanking up his sleeve to examine the wound. Frank made a mad dash for Miri, throwing himself at her plastic-covered feet. She froze, eyes darting in arbitrary directions as she tried to figure out how _Always Ready_ applied to this situation.

“Oh thank God you’re here! Thank God. Please, help me! Get this crazy bastard away from me!” He clawed at her clothes, trying to grab fistfuls, but his hands passed right through. 

“Won’t somebody SAVE me from this INJUSTICE!” Stripes mocked in falsetto, shaking off the embarrassment of being thwarted by his second favorite activity. “Haven’t you figured out yet that nobody”—he hopped a table with ease and started toward them—“can fucking SEE US?” Garish laughter erupted from somewhere deep inside his frame, showing off his grotesque army of teeth. They were jagged and greenish, looking just as undead as their owner. He stopped within arm’s reach, and Miri could make out smudges of dirt and moss growing between smatterings of facial hair. The whites of his eyes were jaundice yellow, his pupils glowing pink with unadulterated glee. 

He was having a wonderful time. 

To illustrate his point, Stripes pressed his nose to hers, snaking a pointed, rotting tongue from her chin to her forehead. The tongue was cold as death. His mouth smelled like a tacklebox left in the sun too long. He had used her as a prop, but it had worked. Frank’s acquiescence was apparent, though she could feel his eyes on her through his shroud of hopelessness as Stripes sauntered a few feet away to rummage through his pockets. A wave of sympathy washed over Miri. Not only was Frank dead but as far as he knew, the only one who could see him was an oversexed, interdimensional demon who stank like expired hotdogs, and was sent—irony of ironies—to collect his soul. Plus he had to spend eternity in that outfit. 

The obnoxious ghoul had given her an unexpected gift, though. She could now observe him in all his glory, like the emperor parading naked through the streets, and he was none the wiser. This guy’s own hubris was her greatest weapon against him. _Although_ , she considered, _this one probably wouldn’t have to be tricked into a naked parade._

Hiding in plain sight, she ambled straight through Frank’s ghost and into the mayhem, righting tables as she went, retrieving boxes from the floor, and generally tidying up. She made a show of calling out to her brother, accusing him of pulling some elaborate prank. Not that Barry would ever pull anything—he couldn’t even pull the stick from his ass. Barry was undoubtedly at home right now in his designer bathrobe, sipping scotch and muttering about the stock market. When no answer came, she painted a look of sweet confusion on her face, throwing in an exaggerated shrug for good measure. 

Miri set about wiping down water fixtures, trying her best to look engaged. Embalming tables at Knoll funeral home came equipped with a hose attachment for all of your corpse washing needs. Bodies were washed first, often in the cold storage room, before being transferred to her sterile work station down the hall. This gave her an idea. Humming lightly to herself, she rolled a table to a water line and began filling its lower rack with fallen supply boxes, obscuring herself as she attached the hose hookup to an outside line—a high pressure line, used only for cleaning unprecedented messes off of steel and granite. 

Things had grown uncharacteristically quiet, and she allowed herself a peek to make sure Stripes wasn’t still trashing the place. He was not. While Frank rocked back and forth in a semi-catatonic ball, his warden was hurriedly scrawling a large chalk rectangle on the door of Cold Storage 6—the broken one. The one whose alarm had screeched all night when the temperature control failed. The one that cost the business six storage spots _and_ a consultation fee from a sketchy repairman who did nothing but disable the alarm. 

Miri knelt behind the table, squinting. The chalk drawing was beginning to look suspiciously like a door. Stripes pocketed the chalk, and knocked three times. 

Surprises for Miri usually went something like this: The time her college girlfriend had surprised her with immaculate conception, swearing she had never been with a man in her life; the time her rebound boyfriend surprised her with crabs, but not the edible kind and; of course, the time her car’s faulty wiring gave her a truly incendiary surprise on a six lane highway, resulting in three weeks at the Bronson Burn and Wound Center, multiple skin grafts, and a prosthetic eye. The accident left her with permanent scarring over most of her body and a quarter of her face, and a fantastic resistance to ever being surprised again—until today, when Stripey McFuckery opened a goddamned bona fide portal to hell, right on top of Cold Storage 6. 

Thoughts of subterfuge melted away as the doorway slowly widened. Otherworldly mist poured out from within, and unintelligible voices bubbled up. Stripes leaned smugly against the frame and admired his handiwork, while Frank’s fearful expression melted into resignation. Miri knew exactly what resignation felt like; its ugly face was neatly braided into most of her life experiences. A new sensation was brewing in her core; one as steely and unyielding as the table behind which she crouched. She would not stand idly by and see him forced through that door. 

She craned her head out from behind the boxes, right hand white-knuckled on the hose nozzle, and made direct eye contact with Frank. His eyes widened with realization. Her eyes flitted urgently from him to the exit and back again until his face registered understanding. Gesturing subtly with her left hand, she began a countdown. 

Three fingers. He nodded, only slightly. 

Two fingers. She jerked her head toward the exit, beyond which lay the stairs leading to the main floor. 

One. 

Miri mouthed the word “RUN,” as she shot up from behind the table and leveled the high pressure hose at the man in the tacky suit. 

Frank ran.

“Hey, fucko!” She taunted. Stripes whirled around. It was his turn to be surprised. He threw a glance over each shoulder.

“Yeah you, worm breath! Quit terrorizing my clients!” Before he could respond, Miri unleashed a torrent from the hose’s nozzle. Her aim was perfect. The stream knocked the hat from his head as well as dissolving a portion of the chalk outline. The portal closed immediately. He held out his hands in protest, trying to shout through the watery onslaught. She lowered the stream a few inches, pinning him hard against Cold Storage 6. The blow from his shoulders left a dent in the door. He was lucky it was the broken one.

Only when she was satisfied that Frank had made it to freedom did she end the deluge. Miri closed the gap quickly as he sputtered like a drowning rat. Water poured from his nose and eye sockets as he glared with fire in his eyes, trying to curse at her no doubt, but choking on the words. The tips of his curls rapid-cycled vengeful reds and royal purples.

She pushed her nose to his, this time, tickled to find that she was at least two inches taller. “What’s the matter, hot stuff?” She asked. “Don’t like feeling vulnerable?” 

Stripes gave one last hack and straightened his spine against the storage door, retrieving an already lit cigarette from his soaked pocket. Taking a slow drag, a curvy smirk consumed his lips, temporarily obscuring his mangled teeth. The corners of his mouth pushed his yellow eyes into a squint.

“I hope you know that you’ve killed him,” he gurgled, exhaling a plume of smoke directly into her face. “I mean, again.”

“Yeah, like I’d believe anything you have to say,” she shot back. Her eyes burned from the cloud, but she knew better than to show weakness to someone like him.

Stripes peeled his waterlogged suit jacket from his pale grey skin. With a flick of his wrist, it vanished in a green puff. He did the same to the dingy button-down underneath, revealing an even more stained beige tank that looked like a mustard casualty. He was an entire Russian doll of filth, even after a 1300 PSI shower.

He spread his bare arms innocently, wiggling his fingers as he bounced in place. Several watch faces, displaying vastly different times, glinted as he moved. 

“Look. Babes. I’ve been in this business a long time, but nobody and I mean nobody has ever managed to get me into the shower. That’s a new one for me so, you know. Kudos to you. And now I gotta send my suit over to the dry screamers on my day off and get it dirtied again, and you’re lucky I’m a nice enough guy I’m not asking you for any, you know, payment, if y’know what I mean. What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Frank’s fucked. You fucked him. Like straight up the ass with a dragon dildo, no lube, no reach around. Way to go.” He took a second drag of his cigarette and then swallowed it whole. “Now if it was me,” he rambled on, pausing briefly to burp a smoke ring, “I’d make you buy me dinner first. Maybe do a little dancing, y’know, something slow, slip the DJ a few bucks to—”

“Do you ever SHUT the FUCK up?” Miri interrupted his soliloquy. “What do you mean, about Frank? How is he fucked? Anything’s got to be better than getting dragged into hell by _you_!”

Stripes, who had been adding wildly terrible dance moves to his monologue, groaned and slumped his shoulders, snaking his fingers through his hair. The tips of his blonde mane dried and turned mossy green at his touch, and Miri noticed, for the first time, crimson staining of his fingertips. His eyes narrowed at her, though now they just seemed tired. 

“The Neitherworld isn’t hell, you ignorant breather. It’s home." 

When she didn’t respond, he sighed and started toward the exit. “Come on, sexy Haley Joel. If you’re gonna be seeing dead people, you might as well see what’s about happen to ol’ Frank.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! I apparently wrote this chapter underwater and drunk first and had to pull it down and fix it 8 times. It's better now!


	3. Three Blind Mice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorens' religious trauma becomes shockingly apparent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on publishing this installment for a while because I wanted to have a follow-up to go with it. But life is hard. It is busy. I write this story daily in my head and fall asleep at the crack of dawn with way too many things on my task list incomplete, thus it doesn't get typed. I'm ready to knock out chapter 4, though. I hope the people who were following this are still into it.  
> This was hard to write in some ways. This is a character who, as you expect, will EVENTUALLY become our lovable, unlovable, chaotic neutral ghost with the most, who gives precisely zero fucks about pretty much everything. But going off the scraps of canon that his creators have dropped here and there since his inception, he was very much human once, a long time ago.  
> I want you to be angry with this stage of his development. But also to feel pity. And also fear. And a lot of other complicated emotions, because that's the knot in Lorens' head right now. His mentality by modern day standards is 100% inexcusable, but for a young man raised and abused by the church in a time where science and medicine were in their infancy, he lives now in perpetual terror of divine punishment for the most basic of human emotions. All while everyone he knows insists that he is especially lucky.

Paris, 1389

The summer heat was suffocating, and what little breeze there was carried with it a restless agitation. The townsfolk seemed to sense this, and he could feel their ever curious, watchful eyes on the back of his sweaty curls as he made his way past. He traversed the footpath through the more densely populated part of the village, shuffling his naked feet through the fine dirt to distract himself from their gaze. 

It was no secret he was the subject of much speculation. How could it be that someone lucky enough to survive both the pox and the black death, living to such an age alone in a cottage rife with potential for many a trade had remained unwed? What kind of sin must he have committed? Or was he defective in a less obvious, much more private way? No one was discourteous to his face, especially not if they had ever needed a service that he could provide, but their speculations crawled up and down his spine. He would not cower to their notion of him, however; God was good, and he had no mortal sins for which to answer. Survival was not a crime. 

He straightened against the weight of the sun. His hair clung helplessly to the back of his neck, dripping as he walked. Not everyone on his daily trek regarded him with morbid curiosity. The brewer Amé, his wife, and their three sons beckoned him from their yard as he passed. 

“Monsieur De Bonheur!” Amé greeted him cheerfully, waving a stein across his fence. His diminutive red face glowed with excitement. Amé had purchased a sheaf of barley the year prior, desperate to try something new.

“Amé! How many times shall I tell you to save the formalities for the king’s men and please call me Lorens?” He grinned, embracing his friend.

“You shall tell me a thousand times,” Amé insisted, clutching the stein tightly in one arm and Lorens in the other, “especially now that I have you to thank for this incredible new batch. This morning was the first tasting. Come! Do my family and I the honor of sharing in this moment.”

Lorens shifted his weight indecisively. On one hand, he was a creature of habit. The market was waiting for him, filled with possibilities for the future, plus the few goods on his back were waiting eagerly to be sold or traded. On the other hand, it was difficult to turn down a drink in this heat. 

Amé’s wife made her way across the yard, her youngest son in tow. Her linen chemise clung to her form, perspiration and the swinging toddler on her arm leaving very little to modesty. She was heavily pregnant with their fourth, and helpless to contain herself in the worn, sun-bleached garment. Sweat had pooled in her cleavage, and auburn wisps clung to her face and neck from her tasks in the yard. Lorens tried very hard not to gape, focusing instead on the rocks and dirt between his toes. His body had already betrayed him, but by the grace of God his tunic was out of style and ended at his knees. 

No sooner had Lorens opened his mouth to decline the invitation than Amé pushed the stein into his empty hand. Pulling his wife and son proudly to his side, he urged his friend to take a drink. 

Lorens lifted the offering to his lips, taking a polite sip. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. It was delicious. 

Amé craned his neck forward expectantly. “So?” He grinned. “See, Enora? I told you he would hate it. It is disgusting, no?” He chided playfully. “Should I dump the rest in the Seine, then?”

Lorens chuckled, opening his eyes to the couple’s kind faces. He flushed with embarrassment at his fleeting impure thought. Amé and Enora were more than husband and wife; they were a partnership. Two sides of a powerful operation with ambitious ingenuity. He would do penance later. 

“It is incredible, Amé. _Magnifique_.”

Amé and Enora squealed with glee, and Amé wrapped his friend in a tighter embrace. “I could kiss you!” He cried out, immediately planting a kiss on Lorens’ cheek. “It’s going to be a good year thanks to you! I cannot wait to see what you have for us next time. You are going to market?” It was a statement more than a question. Amé knew routines as well as anyone. Lorens nodded, offering the stein back to its owners.

“You must take some with you. In this heat, you will need it,” Enora insisted, and the stein was met with gentle resistance. Amé adamantly agreed, squeezing his arm once more. 

“Keep it. The sales from this product will more than compensate for it. We will have one hundred steins by All Saints Day once word gets out! You will have your share of the profits, of course,” Amé added, his face turning serious.

“ _Non_ , Amé. You paid for the materials already. What you earn from here is yours to keep. You will soon have another mouth to feed,” Lorens reminded him.

Enora glowed at the mention. She was positively radiant, her chemise nearly soaked completely through with sweat. A breeze carried salty droplets from her chest to his lips, and he swore he could taste it. He imagined himself lost at sea, dying of thirst, with only Enora’s perspiration. The sweet, salty body of water flowed in and out from his mouth to his stomach and back, endlessly crashing against him in waves that generously licked his outsides and filled his insides. No matter how greedily he drank, his thirst never decreased. He would soon drown, washed ashore, naked, in a three inch tidal pool of sweat. His mouth watered. He choked back the flood of saliva as a warmth filled his braies. 

Amé slapped him on the back jovially, and lonely reality shook him from his trance. His friend’s head bobbed enthusiastically.

“All right, monsieur! I am easily swayed,” he said with a wink. “But do call on us whenever your cup is empty. Ale is on the house from now on. Aren’t you fortuitous, no? De Bonheur!” Amé’s cup saluted the sky. 

“I may just do that,” Lorens replied, bowing both graciously and to hide the red stain of embarrassment in his cheeks. He raised his cup half-heartedly in return as he took his leave. “ _Bonne matinée_ Amé, Enora. May the Lord keep you.”

Echoes of _bonne matinée_ sounded over his shoulder as he made his way down the road. Once he was out of sight, Lorens De Bonheur tossed the stein and its contents into a bush.

That evening, alone in the loft, he recounted his sins. He had coveted before, he knew, and God had spared him but taken Sister Symonne as a warning. This was a deeper sin, a step above. A cardinal sin. Or was it deadly? His head felt heavier, as though a fog had rolled in. His neighbor’s wife, _non—_ his _friend_. He shook with fear of what retribution the Lord had planned for him now. Oh, but if only she had not smelled so sweet and if only her neckline had not dipped so low as to invite temptation! _Yes_ , he considered, affirming his innocence, _she carries guilt as well._ Still, as he struggled to shift the blame in his mind, he went about collecting a thorny switch from the yard. 

In a surprising flash of emotion, red hot anger welled up inside. Lorens’ knees buckled, leaning himself against the edge of his straw bed. He knelt, naked in the flickering shadows of the rushlight, switch in hand. How dare she bewitch him like that? Did she not know how weak he was? He brought the lightning down on his flesh. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, edging out the white hot rage. Though he was in his standard position of prayer, his senses were accelerating faster than his lips could croak out pleas for forgiveness. He begged God for mercy with each lash, for both himself and for Enora. The seductress. The real sinner. He knew God would not be gentle with her, but perhaps he could lighten the punishment.

With a few more agonizing lashes, Lorens noticed his uncovered hips pressing themselves desperately into his wool blanket. Even now, the evil spirits had him in their clutches. He squeezed his eyes tightly and brought the switch down on his back harder this time. Trickles of blood made their way down his ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. _It’s too late,_ he told himself. _There is only one way to expel the evil now_.

With each lash by his right hand, he succumbed to the aphrodisiac of shame. His left busied itself furiously with the sin for which he paid. The agony and ecstasy melded seamlessly into one, bringing throaty grunts up from his core. The salt of his tears only furthered his desire as rivers of saline flowed to the dripping mucous of his nostrils, joining at the inlet of his open mouth, the holy trinity of cascades pouring down his bare chest and into the hand that worked between his legs, already slick with sweat and the glistening sin he could no longer contain. His teeth tried in vain to hold the howl behind his lips, but were met with a mouthful of blood. 

The volume of evil that burst from inside of him was inhuman. He reminded himself that it was sin, not seed, and that he had rightly exorcised the demons before they overtook him completely. He lay face down in the straw, heaving mouthfuls of brisk night air as the blood of his wounds pooled around him. His right hand unclenched and the switch dropped unceremoniously to the floor. 

He was satisfied that his debts were paid—he hoped Enora was grateful to be spared. 


End file.
